Please Be Patient
by clair beaubien
Summary: Tag scene to Great Pumpkin. The drive back to the motel from the crypt. This is a repost because I only just realized it wasn't in my listing anymore.


A/N1: I only just realized that this story was missing from my line-up here. So this is an oldie but (I hope) a goodie.

* * *

Missing Scene from Great Pumpkin

It was a long, silent ride in the Impala from the cemetery back to the motel. Sam sat staring out the passenger window with Dean's bandana pressed under his nose. He didn't think he was still bleeding, but it was an excuse not to have to talk. It'd probably start bleeding again when they got back to the room and Dean took that swing at him he was surely already rehearsing.

Sam's head was on fire and his stomach was rolling around because of it. And because he'd done _it_. He'd used his abilities when he'd promised himself – _promised Dean_ – that he wouldn't use them again. He'd had no choice, sure. But that didn't make it any easier to think about.

He was worried, too, that Dean wasn't saying anything. He hadn't really said anything at the mausoleum either. Samhain had been dispatched back to hell, the town was safe, but Sam had broken his promise. When he looked up after killing Samhain and saw Dean staring at him, he wished he could sink into the floor the way the demon had. It wasn't until he tried to say something that he realized he had a nosebleed and he tried to scrub it away, as though if he could get rid of the blood, he could get rid of Dean's memory of the exorcism.

Dean finally walked up to Sam and lifted his hand. Sam flinched, thinking that whatever Dean was going to do, he deserved it. Dean just pushed the bandana into his hand then went over to pick up the knife.

"Can you walk?" He'd asked then and his voice was shaking. Dean was so pissed, his voice was shaking. _No_, Sam thought, he couldn't walk. It felt like there was a knife in his brain and Jell-O in his legs and the smell from the salt and burn farther down the mausoleum was making him nauseous. He couldn't walk, he didn't want to walk, he wanted to collapse.

But he had to walk, so he nodded and took one step, one shaky step, and then Dean was there with his arm around Sam's back, pulling Sam's arm over his shoulder, and they managed to get back to the car for the silent drive back to the motel. They parked and got out and out of habit, out of not wanting to expect Dean to do it, Sam pulled out his key, intending to open the door. But Dean stepped in front of him to open it and Sam wondered if he was even going to be allowed into the room. Then Dean stepped back to let Sam go in first, and closed the door behind them.

Sam was surprised when he made it to the far bed. He sat down on the end of it, curling over to hide his head in his arms. As soon as the room stopped shaking, as soon as he could move, as soon as Dean was done yelling at him, he'd go into the bathroom and collapse. For now he'd try to keep his brain and his stomach both where they belonged.

He could hear Dean rummaging through his duffel bag, muttering angrily to himself. Sam couldn't make out the words, except for _'dammit'_ every once in a while. But he figured Dean was yelling at him. Then he heard a relieved '_finally'_, heard the faucet turn on and off, and then Dean was standing in front of him.

"_Here."_

Sam looked up and the first thing he saw was Dean's hands holding out a plastic cup of water and two massive tablets. He was confused. Dean was supposed to be ripping him a new one, not taking care of him.

"We both know you've got a monster headache, so don't tell me you don't." Dean said when Sam didn't make a move.

"Aren't you pissed at me?"

"I'm not pissed at you." And Dean sounded like he meant it. "Take these."

Sam took the pills and the water from him. Usually when they managed to score heavy duty prescription painkillers, they'd be parsimonious with each dose, taking half of the recommended amount at a time just because they didn't know when they'd get more. But Dean had given him _two_ of the 600mg prescription ibuprofen that they saved for special occasions. That much would take the pain away _and_ make him sleep.

How many times had they done this? Sam looked at the pills in his hand and wondered – how many times in the past three years and more had Dean given him painkillers? For his vision-induced migraines. His broken hand. His cuts and scrapes and that God-awful morning he woke up with Jake's regard tattooed into his spine. How many times had Dean taken care of him?

How many times? _Every_ time, Sam knew. Every single time. If he had a headache or pain or injury and Dean was in the room, Dean got him the pills and the water, or the bandages or the splints. Anytime Sam tried to get them himself, all he got was an annoyed, "_Sit before you fall_."

Even now Dean waited until Sam had taken the pills before he went to his duffel to stow the pill bottle back inside. Sam wanted to ask Dean why he wasn't pissed. Maybe he really was and he was lying saying he wasn't. They'd had their share of lies between them before, no question there.

Sam drank all the water which wasn't much in the little motel cup, and he realized he was thirsty. He could probably get up and get himself some more water; the sink wasn't that far away, he could probably stay upright that long. And Dean would either say 'what the hell do you think you're doing?' or he wouldn't say anything at all, and Sam was afraid it would be Door #2.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean turned to Sam from where he was packing up his stuff.

"Would you –." Sam lifted the cup, meaning to ask if Dean would get him more water, but out of the blue he heard himself ask, "Why _aren't_ you pissed at me?"

If the question surprised Dean, he didn't show it. He took the cup from Sam but set it on the table and picked up an empty used take-out coffee cup instead.

"This'll be better. Holds more."

He rinsed the cup and filled it and brought it back to Sam.

"Dean –."

"You should drink that and go to sleep." He still didn't sound angry. He sounded like – Dean. Bossing him around.

"Dean – _please_."

Dean got that '_angry behind a blank look'_ look on his face. Sam knew that look, it seemed like he'd been seeing it a lot since Dean came back. Dean pushed the cup of water into Sam's hand and sat at the end of the other bed, turned toward him.

"You want me to be mad at you?" He asked, and Sam was sure he could hear the ire under the amusement.

"I want –." _I want this blood out of me, if I can't use them for good I want these abilities out of me, I want to go to sleep and not wake up thinking every morning brings me one step closer to when you'll have to kill me. _"I didn't keep my promise to you. I promised not to use that power, and I used it anyway."

"You did what you had to," Dean said. He sounded like he didn't want to be saying it, like it was something he was being forced to say.

"He knocked the knife out of my hand and there wasn't time to get it back." Sam felt like he still had to explain. "I just reacted – I just – did it."

"Sammy…" Dean looked down, at his hands, at his boots, at the floor. He was trying to think of what to say, or how to say it, or even how _not_ to say it. "It's okay. Don't worry about it."

"How can I not?" Sam asked, feeling his desperation take another notch up. The pain in his head was flaring and he wasn't sure he'd be keeping the water and painkillers in his stomach much longer either. "If I use this power, you're going to end up having to kill me, or – what? – the angels are gonna 'stop' me."

"We'll figure this out." Dean said. He sounded as tired and wrung out as Sam felt.

"Figure _what_ out? Haven't we been trying to figure _it_ out for nearly three years now? Are we any closer to figuring it out?"

"Yes. Yes we are."

"Yeah, right." Sam said. "We've figured out that even God is about done with me."

Dean raised his eyebrows and smiled like he'd just been given the answer to a very hard question.

"_What?_" Sam asked.

"Just that that's about the furthest thing from the truth I've heard in a long time."

"What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you say that you'd grown another inch since – since last year?"

Sam couldn't begin to imagine what Dean was thinking. Yeah, he seemed to have gotten another inch taller over that hellish summer, but what could that have to do with anything?

"Yeah. I guess. So?"

If possible, Dean's smile got even wider. "See? That proves it."

"Proves _what?_" Sam asked. The confusion was making the pain in his head bounce up and down on his brain.

"Proves the t-shirt Sammy: '_God __**isn't**__ finished with you yet."_

Sam stared at Dean. That didn't make sense. It couldn't make sense. Sam didn't want it to make sense.

"That's not what the angels are saying."

"Screw the angels, Sam. I don't care if it's the Hound of Heaven or the Hounds of Hell. Whatever it takes, I'll keep you safe."

When Dean said that, he sounded so much like he meant it, like he'd do it, Sam stared at him, trying to think how to answer it.

"You're crazy," he finally said. The drugs were finally starting to work, he was getting sleepy. "Pissin' off God."

"Yeah, well… From what I remember Pastor Jim talking about, I wouldn't be the first. Go to sleep Sammy. We'll be okay. God isn't finished with either of us yet."

The End

* * *

A/N2: please pray for my sister. The holidays are being unmitigated hell on her and I have no clue how to help her.


End file.
